


Hue

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, WTF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 13:37:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4102903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil tries to judge whether or not Tauriel knows his terrible secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hue

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “...he dyes his hair. That's his dirty secret. He started when he was very young, and never dared stop. He never goes anywhere on extended trips because that would mean dragging his hair dye with him. That's why he wasn't at the meeting in Rivendell. That's why it took him so long to get to Dale. He had to touch up his roots. That's why Galion isn't supposed to be drinking. Thranduil's terrified someone's going to blurt out his secret. What happens when someone walks in on him? What's the elven king willing to pay for their silence?” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/14338.html?thread=26025218#t26025218).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

For once, Tauriel’s rigid posture is matched in her king. She always stands at full attention, tense when he approaches her, taut in every muscle when he speaks. But he’s usually far more languid; he relaxes in his role as her supreme ruler, and he can even find a small enjoyment in the way she struggles to match his regal ease. 

Today, he’s nearly as tense. He doesn’t show it, of course. His face remains as impassive as ever, and his graceful robes hide the tightness of his flesh. He stands before her on the raised dais just below his throne, and he eyes her with a cold indifference, in truth trying to size up every last emotion in her face. He can’t be certain what she heard, and on the off chance she knows nothing, he doesn’t dare risk asking outright. He doesn’t risk walking in a teasing circle around her as he so often does, less he miss any flicker of guilt. He gives her that first moment to come clean, but she says nothing. 

So Thranduil takes a step forward, leaving only two between them, and he drawls as casually as he can, “I have heard that you and Galion have been spending much time together, since his office was relocated to the dungeons.”

One of Tauriel’s brows twitches: curiosity quickly squashed. She answers, “I have spent time with him, yes. But I would not call it ‘much,’ my lord.”

It wouldn’t take much. All she had to do was linger around the old butler’s drunken breath for more than a minute, and she’d have everything she needed. Thranduil adds, knowing such a thing would only occur under loosened tongues, “And he has been at the bottle.” She dips her head once in silent acquiescence. Those faults aren’t hers to speak on, but she can’t forgo an answer to her king. Thranduil lifts his chin simply to look down at her through his lashes, as imposing as he can manage. He’s terrified secrets out of elves greater than her. 

But she admits nothing. “It is only natural to assume that in these times together, you have had many... interesting... discussions.” Thranduil pauses. Tauriel offers no denial. “Given how long Galion has served me, it would be foolish to think that he did not have any... untoward _theories_... regarding his king.” Here, Tauriel does lift an eyebrow. Thranduil’s voice dips low to add, harsh and in warning, “Naturally, you would never repeat any of it.”

“Of course, my lord.” 

His eyes thin, and he takes another step. They’re now so close that he can smell the vaguely floral scents that cling to her from her patrol outside. He looks down at her, she up at him, and he tries to peer into her soul to gather _if she knows_ , if that old fool of a butler’s told her of the truth behind her king’s golden white locks, that such splendor could, even on one so handsome and powerful as himself, not possibly be natural. 

Unfortunately, the intense scrutiny only serves to unnerve himself. If any of his roots are showing, as dark as his thick brows, she’ll see them at this intimate a distance. And she must know now that he has something to hide. Thranduil isn’t accustomed to being uneasy in anything, and it only makes him bitter. He turns abruptly, marching back towards the other side, his silver robes swaying behind him. He crosses his arms behind his back, glancing down through the depths of his kingdom. If she does know, he can buy her silence. She’s weaker than most in that regard; she has plebian wishes that he could accommodate. Surely, she could be kept in line. 

And on some small, nervous level, he wonders if it might be _better_ to have an ally in his guards. He’s handled this long enough on his own to be a master at application, but it still becomes difficult to provide cover when he’s summoned to Imladris or Dale and can’t set out until his hair has dried. It isn’t a process he dares to rush or tamper with. Perhaps if he had someone else to confide in, who could keep watch of such needs...

Tauriel would not be a good candidate for that, he reminds himself. She’s young, and her loyalty is more to the ‘greater good’ than him, which children often misinterpret. Yet he has no other options. Galion, with his drinking as it is, can no longer be trusted. He couldn’t bring himself to tell his son—Legolas, whether or not he says it, takes such pride in sharing his father’s impeccable looks. Feren has proved himself loyal, but he’s a brunet, and he might find subconscious offense in Thranduil’s actions, and that would prove a threat. 

No, there’s no one he can tell. It’s his burden alone. When he turns back to Tauriel, he gives her one long, hard, final stare. There’s no particular recognition. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps she doesn’t know. 

With a wave of his hand, he dismisses her. She turns, bowing her head and returning to the stairs. Her delicately braided, fire-orange hair flows after her, as magnificent as any star. 

Yet she pauses. She glances over her shoulder and murmurs quietly, “If you crush athelas leaves into the mixture, you will gain an extra fortnight of hidden roots.”

She walks away while Thranduil is still staring, her suspiciously perfect colour flowing in her wake.


End file.
